


Sleepless in Helsinki

by toyhto



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Angst, But light angst I think, Flirting, Insomnia, M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-08
Updated: 2019-06-08
Packaged: 2020-04-23 03:52:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19143016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toyhto/pseuds/toyhto
Summary: Arthur has trouble sleeping.





	Sleepless in Helsinki

It’s been five months. Not that Arthur should be counting. Eames definitely isn’t. And it’s not like Arthur has _missed_ him, not at all, it’s just that the Fischer job was pretty intense and things like that tend to stick with you for some time. That’s why he’s been thinking about Eames lately. Besides, he’s not heard about Eames, not a thing, which is irritating because he can’t stop wondering what Eames is doing and where and with whom. Perhaps Eames hasn’t taken any jobs. All of them walked out of the Fischer job with a nice sum of money. But if Eames really hasn’t been working, what the hell has he been doing?  
  
Fuck. It’s not Arthur’s fucking business. So, he packs his favorite suits and flies to Helsinki for a job and tries not to think about Eames.  
  
“Hell, it’s been five months,” Eames says the next day, the first moment they’re alone. “You look bloody awful.”  
  
“Thank you,” Arthur says. Eames looks so good it seems unfair somehow.  
  
“No, really,” Eames says, narrowing his eyes just slightly, which makes him look worried. It seems genuine, but then again, Arthur can never tell with him. He can’t begin to think he _knows_ Eames. “You look like you haven’t been sleeping since I last saw you. Five months ago.”  
  
“I have,” Arthur says. Eames is staring at him. “Not much. But I have.”  
  
“You bloody idiot,” Eames says, but his voice is strangely quiet. “You should be sleeping like a baby. We all should, after we pulled off a job like that.”  
  
“Well, you know how it is,” Arthur says.  
  
“Yeah,” Eames says, watching him too closely. There are steps coming from the corridor, the rest of the team is getting back. Arthur turns away. “We should catch up,” Eames says. “Tonight, at your place.”  
  
Arthur opens his mouth, but that’s the moment when the door opens and Helena, the forty-year-old architect with an odd fixation to science fiction, rushes in talking about how coffee around here isn’t what it used to be. Eames says something sharp and mildly flirty and Sebastian, the chemist, eyes Eames, looking like he doesn’t have a clue his crush is showing. Arthur looks away. He’s not like that. He’s going to make sure of that. But it takes him a few minutes to get his thoughts back together, to the research he was doing at his laptop before the others left for coffee and Eames came by his desk. Probably Eames didn’t mean it. _Catch up?_ They never catch up. And Eames isn’t supposed to know where Arthur’s staying. And they both have work to do. _And_ Arthur doesn’t _want_ Eames to come.  
  
Of course not.  
  
  
**  
  
  
The hotel is nice enough. There’s a view over the sea and bunch of Chinese tourists who all ignore him as he steps to the elevator after them. He’s not nervous. That’d be mad. His heart is beating slightly faster only because he walked quite a few blocks on the way here. And he didn’t do that in order to try to avoid coming to his hotel room and finding out Eames isn’t there.  
  
He opens the door.  
  
“You’re late,” Eames says, pouring himself wine, then nodding at the bottle. “Want some?”  
  
Arthur should say no. He’s not great with alcohol, not when he’s working. And he’s not great with Eames. “Sure.”  
  
“Great,” Eames says and hands over the bottle. “I only brought one glass. Where were you? You don’t know anyone in this city.”  
  
Arthur takes the bottle, gets a plastic cup from the bathroom and pours wine into it. Then he sits down in the only chair in the room, because Eames is sitting on the bed and there’s no way he’s going to sit down so close to Eames. He swallows. The wine tastes fine, despite the plastic cup. He opens the upper button of his shirt and then fastens it again.  
  
“You poor fool,” Eames says, his voice lower and hoarser than usually, must be because of the wine. Maybe Eames has been here for a while now, waiting for Arthur in his hotel room, sitting on Arthur’s bed, perhaps lying down for a few seconds, his head on Arthur’s pillow. “Really, where were you? Just working late?”  
  
Arthur bites his lower lip. “Are you jealous?”  
  
He shouldn’t be so delighted about the smile that quickly comes and goes on the corners of Eames’ mouth. “Darling, I’m not _jealous_. Just curios.”  
  
“I went to see the place,” Arthur says, “you know, the park where we’re supposed to get to the mark.”  
  
“That was stupid,” Eames says, looking actually concerned.  
  
“I was very discreet about it.”  
  
“I bet you were. And then, what, you stayed there for three hours, rubbing your face at the security cameras?”  
  
“There weren’t any. And no. I just took a walk.”  
  
“For exercise,” Eames says slowly, “because that’s going to help you a lot, you idiot. Come on, Arthur. You can’t sleep.”  
  
Arthur closes his eyes for just a second. When he opens them again, Eames is leaning towards him, elbows resting on the knees, the glass of wine tilted as if Eames has forgotten he’s holding it.  
  
“I _can._ A little, most nights.”  
  
“Arthur,” Eames says.  
  
“Eames,” Arthur says, and he’s too tired for this, too fucking tired, the name tastes so strange in his mouth, or maybe it’s the cheap wine in a plastic cup. “It’s nothing. Comes with the job. You know that. None of us sleeps _well._ ”  
  
“Yeah, but I know you,” Eames says, and Arthur wants to laugh because of course Eames doesn’t _know_ him, “and you look terrible. It’s been just five months. Five months shouldn’t ruin your pretty face like that.”  
  
“My pretty what,” Arthur says but it comes out somewhat thin.  
  
Eames rolls his eyes but not without a smile. “So, what’s wrong? Are you missing Cobb?”  
  
“Of course not,” Arthur says too quickly. Eames is still smiling. “Well, of course I miss Cobb. But I don’t want him to… he’s _happy._ And it’s not about that.”  
  
“Then what is it about?”  
  
“I don’t know.”  
  
He can’t bear the way Eames is looking at him.  
  
“I just can’t sleep,” he says, drawing his eyes away from Eames, but he can still feel the gaze on his forehead, then on his neck, on his mouth. _Fuck._ Now he’s imagining things. “It’s shit but it happens. It’s not like there’s a reason for that, something I could fix.”  
  
“There might be,” Eames says.  
  
“Fuck off,” Arthur says.  
  
Eames leans back on Arthur’s bed, both palms flat against the bedspread. “Tell me something else, then. How did you spend the money? Not on hotel rooms, I see.”  
  
“Eames,” Arthur says, “what’re you doing here?”  
  
He’s waiting for something smart and annoying, but Eames pulls his shoulders back and the silence stretches a bit too long. “Socializing. I haven’t seen you in five months.”  
  
“It’s not like you saw me often before that, either.”  
  
“Yeah,” Eames says slowly, “but the job. The inception. It was a bit intense.”  
  
“Are you in contact with others?”  
  
Eames laughs, then abruptly goes quiet. “No.”  
  
“So,” Arthur says and takes a sip of his wine. He should remind Eames that they aren’t friends. They went through a particularly shitty job together and somehow pulled it off but that doesn’t make them _friends._ Eames will never know how much Arthur has tried not to think about him during the last five months. But Eames is watching him, Eames is fucking sitting on his hotel bed, and he’s bad with alcohol. “ _So._ How have you been?”  
  
“Fine,” Eames says and blinks. “Oh. Yeah. I’ve been fine, thank you for asking.”  
  
“Fine?”  
  
“Yeah.” Eames drinks a bit of wine. Arthur doesn’t look at his mouth. “Well, not _fine,_ but… you know. I got more money than even I can get rid of quickly. It’s been… nice. I’ve bought a few flats.”  
  
“Sounds nice,” Arthur says. He’s just being polite. “From where?”  
  
Eames smiles at him. “But to be perfectly honest, I’ve been a bit bored. Not that I want to die, but after that, every job has seemed a bit… simple.”  
  
“I thought you haven’t been working.”  
  
“I knew you were keeping a track on me,” Eames says and winks at him. Fucking hell. He can’t take this, not when he’s drunk and hasn’t slept in what, four days? He breathes in and takes a sip of his wine. “But, well,” Eames is saying, “you’re right, of course. I haven’t. Nothing interesting came up.”  
  
“Until now.”  
  
“This job?” Eames says and waves vaguely at the window. “It’s nothing to get excited about. You should know that.”  
  
“Why did you take it, then?”  
  
“Why did you?” Eames asks.  
  
Arthur swallows.  
  
“Maybe,” Eames says, “just maybe, I heard you were on this one and I thought, _wouldn’t it be nice to ask Arthur how he’s been doing.”  
  
_“No,” Arthur says. His head is heavy and dull. “No, that doesn’t make sense.”  
  
“Listen,” Eames says and reaches forward, to Arthur, _oh God,_ but then Eames grabs the bottle of wine Arthur has been holding. Arthur doesn’t stare at Eames’ fingers. Probably he doesn’t. “You’re tired,” Eames says in a voice that’s far too nice. “Try to sleep a little. You might be just drunk enough to fall asleep a bit more easily. I’ll see you tomorrow.”  
  
“Where’re you staying?”  
  
“I don’t think you’re coming over tonight,” Eames says, standing up.  
  
Arthur straightens his back. “I didn’t mean –“  
  
“I know,” Eames says and fucking pats him on the shoulder, only Eames’ hand feels warm even through the layers of fabric, and his touch is gentle but firm, and _shit_ Arthur’s losing his grip. “Go to sleep.”  
  
“Thank you,” he says for no reason at all.  
  
He doesn’t sleep, though. It’s too quiet. And too cold. And every time his mind starts to drift, it goes back to Eames sitting on the edge of the bed, _right there_ , as if Arthur could just move a bit closer and touch him, only he doesn’t want to touch him, of course not, he’s not into Eames, he only admires… he only likes… he just doesn’t have a lot of friends. That’s it.  
  
  
**  
  
  
Arthur tries to stay away from his hotel room, but Helsinki is quickly beginning to seem small. He walks a few more blocks, buys chocolate and then takes the elevator to the top floor and tries not to look at the woman who takes a step away from him. He probably looks half-dead even if his suit is perfect. This is getting serious. He walks to the door and uses the key card.  
  
“You’re so slow,” Eames says. “Do you think I don’t have other things to do, except sit here waiting for your poor ass to finally show up?”  
  
Arthur takes off his coat and unbuttons his sleeves. God, he’s too tired for Eames. He’s not been alone with Eames since last night when Eames left his hotel room, and that’s great, because even though Helena and Sebastian were around, Eames kept messing with his mind. He takes a deep breath and turns his back to Eames, who’s once again sitting on the fucking bed. “Do you?”  
  
“Of course not,” Eames says, “who has things to do in Helsinki? I was waiting for you.”  
  
“I can see that.”  
  
“Arthur,” Eames says, and _fuck_ how soft he can make his voice when he wants to, “don’t be an arse.”  
  
“I’m not. I’m just…”  
  
“Tired?”  
  
Arthur shakes his head. What a pointless gesture. Then he sits down on the nearest thing which just happens to be the bed. Eames is close enough to him that he can smell his cologne, or what’s left of it at this point of a day. “I bought chocolate.”  
  
“Great,” Eames says, “I’m hungry. Let’s order pizza.”  
  
“Eames, we can’t just –“  
  
“You’re paying,” Eames says, picking up the phone. “What do you want in it? Or don’t tell me. I’ll guess. I’m good at guessing pizza toppings. Onion and tuna? You’re bloody disgusting.”  
  
Arthur slowly closes his mouth. Eames orders them two pizzas, one of which is quite close to what Arthur likes, but he’s not going to give Eames the satisfaction of saying that aloud or telling him what went wrong. Let the bastard wonder. And he clearly does, because later, when they’re sitting on Arthur’s bed, eating, he keeps taking quick glances at Arthur. Arthur tries not to glance back.  
  
“So,” Eames says, when they have finished eating, “you didn’t sleep last night.”  
  
“Maybe an hour or two.”  
  
“You missed quite a few jokes today.”  
  
Arthur snorts. “Yours? Too bad.”  
  
“Yeah,” Eames says, licking his finger that probably has grease from the pizza on it. “You kept watching me but didn’t fake not being amused. That’s worrying.”  
  
“Don’t do that.”  
  
“What?” Eames asks, his finger still just a few inches away from his mouth.  
  
“ _That._ ”  
  
“What – _oh._ ” Eames frowns at his finger, then at Arthur. “You’re easily offended.”  
  
“I’m not – ,” Arthur takes a deep breath.  
  
“Well,” Eames says, thankfully stops licking at his hands and places them on his thighs. Arthur blinks. “I borrowed the PASIV for the night.”  
  
“Okay.”  
  
“Arthur,” Eames says, his shoulder brushing against Arthur’s, “why aren’t you using it? It’s better than not sleeping at all.”  
  
Arthur inches away from Eames.  
  
“Because someone might think,” Eames says slowly, “not me, but someone who doesn’t know you, that something went wrong five months ago, you know, when you stopped sleeping. And that the reason why you don’t get your hands at a PASIV to get some kind of sleep once in a while is that you can’t handle your projections.”  
  
“It’s not like that. I’m not –“  
  
“Cobb. I _know._ I know the job went bloody great in the end and you don’t have a reason why you aren’t sleeping anymore. Except the obvious. The business we’re in. I’m just saying.”  
  
Arthur shifts on the mattress, not to get closer to Eames. Not at all.  
  
“So, how are your projections?”  
  
Shit. “Stop asking about my projections.”  
  
“Alright, alright,” Eames says, too smoothly, smelling too good, “I’ll meet them anyway.”  
  
It takes Arthur a few seconds to realize what Eames just said. God, he’s really losing it. “What?”  
  
“We’re going under together,” Eames says, “that’s why I borrowed the PASIV. You’re going to build a nice simple dream for us and we’re going to go in and I’ll see if I can figure out what’s wrong with you.”  
  
“Definitely not.”  
  
“Arthur, you know how stubborn I am.”  
  
“I have a gun,” Arthur says. His voice is tight and thin and he doesn’t like how desperate he sounds.  
  
“I have a gun, too,” Eames says easily.  
  
“You aren’t going to figure anything out,” Arthur says, “not about why I can’t sleep, because there’s no reason, it’s just that sometimes it’s difficult. And if you think that I’m going to let you wonder around in my fucking subconsciousness –“  
  
“I’m a bit of an optimistic, I know,” Eames says, “but then again, you let me break into your hotel room two nights at a row and for the whole day you kept throwing glances at me like you were a puppy and wanted me to take you for a walk but couldn’t ask, you stubborn idiot. I _know_ I’m splendid company. I’m trying to help, Arthur, just let me do it. I’m bored and fixing you might be nice for a change.”  
  
“No,” Arthur says.  
  
“Yes,” Eames says and grabs Arthur’s wrist. Arthur stays absolutely still. Eames places Arthur’s hand in his lap, tapping lightly on the vein where the needle is going to sink in. “Come on, Arthur, come _on_.”  
  
Arthur tries to, he really does, but he doesn’t have it in him to pull his hand away.  
  
  
**  
  
  
“What’s this place?”  
  
“My house,” Arthur says and then almost smiles at the look on Eames’ face. “Not my real house. Any of them. Do you think I wouldn’t follow the rules?”  
  
“I wouldn’t bet on that,” Eames says, giving him a long glance. “Looks nice. Empty but nice.”  
  
Arthur doesn’t answer. Eames frowns at him and then starts walking around, and he stays where he is, trying to push back the thought that Eames is in his fucking _head_ , which is nothing new except that this isn’t about work.  
  
“We’re above the sea,” Eames says, stopping beside one of the four glass walls surrounding them. “I’d guess you aren’t afraid of drowning.”  
  
“I’ve drowned a couple of times,” Arthur says. “It’s not pleasant. But, no.”  
  
“It’s funny,” Eames says, still looking through the glass, at the sea that reaches to the horizon where there’s nothing but white sky. The waves are rougher today than usually. “I would’ve thought you’d have an office building for yourself. All seventy floors or something idiotic like that. And it’d be surrounded with people, in a city, perhaps somewhere you had visited because let’s face it, you don’t have that much imagination. You would’ve only changed some details, enough so that it wouldn’t mess with your head. And there on the top floor you’d have your apartment, only it would be just like any other office room. You’d probably have a desk as a bed. God, how uncomfortable.”  
  
“There’s no point sleeping in a dream.”  
  
Eames grins at him and he freezes. Fuck, he should’ve seen that coming. “There’re other things to do in a bed besides sleeping. Surely you’ve heard of that.”  
  
“Shut up,” he says.  
  
Eames grins wider. “Actually, I was thinking about that. It might help. I know you’re the most responsible and boring sod in our line of business but you must’ve at least tried it.”  
  
“Maybe I like it better when it’s real,” Arthur says. The waves are getting higher behind the windows. This was an awful idea, to bring Eames with him to his subconsciousness, how the hell didn’t he realize that he wouldn’t have a fucking chance at getting any rest like this, Eames walking around and poking at everything?  
  
“Yeah, yeah,” Eames says, pushing his hands to his pockets. For once, Eames is wearing a proper suit. “It’s just that you look so tired,” Eames says, staring at him, “and sex in the dream is _good_ , surely you realize that, it’s not _real_ but it kind of feels real at the moment, only everything’s kind of easier than it really is, there’s no mess, you can get hard the minute you think about it, you fit anywhere you want to –“  
  
“Stop,” Arthur says. At least this is as unerotic as it gets, Eames giving him a lecture about sex in a dream.  
  
“You should try it,” Eames says, walking closer to him. Arthur takes a step back. “Give me a room and a TV and I’ll give you some privacy. I won’t even listen.”  
  
Arthur laughs. It’s the nervous kind of laugh but perhaps Eames can’t tell the difference. The sheer thought of him having sex here, when Eames is sitting in the other room that doesn’t exist yet, waiting for Arthur to finish so he can tap him on the shoulder and tell him he did a good job -  
  
“Oh,” Eames says, and there’s something in his voice that’s really wrong. “ _Oh._ ”  
  
Arthur turns. Eames is sitting on a white couch in the middle of the room, only it’s not Eames.  
  
“Arthur,” says the real Eames, walking to him and stopping by his side. He can catch the scent of Eames’ cologne, exactly like in a hotel room a few minutes ago. “I don’t look like that.”  
  
“Yes, you do,” Arthur says.  
  
“Yeah, I do,” says the Eames sitting on the couch, one leg crossed over another, arms stretched on the back of the couch, “and you like it, darling.”  
  
Arthur closes his eyes. When he opens them, Eames is gone and the couch with him.  
  
“You’re good,” says the Eames who’s left, standing so close to him that their arms brush against each other. “I bet I’m as stubborn as a projection than in a real life.”  
  
“Not good enough,” Arthur says and walks away from Eames, only there’s nowhere to go. He should probably move them elsewhere, in a place where he could just keep walking until he couldn’t hear Eames’ voice anymore, but he doesn’t have the strength just now.  
  
“I understand why you sleep so poorly, though,” Eames says.  
  
“It’s not about that.”  
  
“If all your projections look like me… shit.”  
  
“They don’t,” Arthur says, staring at the sea. He thinks it’s a sea. He tried to build a sea with no boats and no bridges.  
  
“Arthur,” Eames says, walking to him. He’s going to step aside, but Eames puts an arm around him, grabs him over the elbow tight enough that if he wants out, he’s going to have to make an effort. And Eames smells so good. “Don’t be an idiot,” Eames says, “dream us a few nice armchairs and a bottle of whiskey and then tell me something. Something that doesn’t bother you. Tell me, I don’t know, tell me about how you organize your files.”  
  
Arthur almost laughs.  
  
“Good,” Eames says, rubbing his arm. God, this is strange. “We’re in a dream. None of this is real. Just tell me about your files.”  
  
“Stop touching me,” he says, but his voice comes out stretched.  
  
“Really?” Eames sounds genuinely surprised.  
  
Arthur takes a deep breath, and then there’s a couch and a bottle of whiskey and, not very surprisingly, a big cardboard box with unnamed documents in it.  
  
“Great, now you’re fantasizing,” Eames says, pats him on the shoulder and then lets him go. He feels empty. “So, what is this?” Eames says, picking up the first document on the pile.  
  
“Please don’t touch it,” Arthur says, but at least his voice is sounding like his again.  
  
Eames laughs.  
  
  
**  
  
  
“So,” Eames says when they’re eating breakfast in a small café near to Arthur’s hotel, “what was up with that?”  
  
“What?” Arthur asks and then swallows down the rest of the croissant.  
  
“You have something on your chin,” Eames says, leans over the table and brushes his thumb lightly against Arthur’s chin. Fucking hell. Arthur keeps his eyes open and his hands steady but it’s not his fault if he stops breathing for a second. “Crumbles. I thought you were a neat eater.”  
  
“Shut up.”  
  
“The other thing, though,” Eames says, taking another bite, and now _he_ has crumbles on the corner of his mouth and Arthur’s definitely not going to brush them away. “Me sitting in your stupidly white couch in your glass house. Who the fuck even wants a _white couch?_ You can do nothing on it.”  
  
“It’s exceptionally easy to clean,” Arthur says, only it doesn’t come out as light as he wants it to, “only takes a little imagination.”  
  
Eames smiles at him anyway, then takes his cup of coffee and covers half of his face with it. “I always knew you think I’m hot.”  
  
Arthur coughs a second. “What? That’s crazy. I don’t –“  
  
“Look at me,” Eames says, setting the cup of coffee aside and smiling, thank God, so Arthur can at least pretend this is a joke. “I’m gorgeous,” Eames says, pointing at his wrinkled shirt that’s the wrong size, by the way, and nobody is using that color since the nineties. “Who wouldn’t think I’m hot? Who in their right mind, I ask? It’s not something to be ashamed of, darling. It just shows that you’re a human after all, like the rest of us.”  
  
“Right,” Arthur says.  
  
“Right,” Eames says, sounding unproportionally happy, “ _right?_ So, the next time, just go ahead with it. You have my blessing. Unless you really are into real sex only, which would be a bloody shame, if I might add.”  
  
“Right.”  
  
“And I won’t even ask about it afterwards,” Eames says, “I promise. I won’t ask what kind of things you wanted to do to me, I mean, to my projection. Or the other way around. And anyway, you don’t have a lot of imagination so I’m probably better off not knowing. To waste a projection of me in a simple blowjob –“  
  
There’s something stuck in Arthur’s throat. He empties his glass of water and then Eames’, but the water doesn’t help him with the coughing. Unfortunately, it doesn’t strangle him, either.  
  
“Great,” Eames says, “I’m glad we had that talk. Now, we should get a taxi before Sebastian and Helena are going to think we’re having breakfast together when we should be working.”  
  
Arthur only nods.  
  
  
**  
  
  
In the evening, Arthur has walked almost a block when Eames catches up with him. He keeps his eyes on the street, on the traffic, on the people passing by, on the green tram that makes awful noise, only not enough to cover Eames’ steps. Eames settles to walk far away enough that they don’t look like they know each other, and Arthur wants to snap at him because this is stupid, this is _dangerous_ , the job they’re doing is a small and relatively simple one but they’re fucking criminals, alright, they aren’t supposed to walk hand in hand in the streets right next to the place where they’re working. Then he thinks about walking hand in hand with Eames. What an absurd thought. It would end up in a wrestle.  
  
“Excuse me,” Eames says when they’re standing in the crossroads, waiting for the light to turn green. Apparently, Finns are the kind of people who don’t jump in front of cars in the crosswalk. “I think I’m lost. I’m looking for my hotel. Could you possibly help me?”  
  
Fucking bastard, Arthur thinks. Reckless fucking bastard. “I’m sorry, I don’t know the area so well.”  
  
“It’s just that,” Eames says and takes a goddamn paper map out of his front pocket, pointing at a spot, “we’re here, right?”  
  
“No, we aren’t,” Arthur says.  
  
“And my hotel is supposed to be here,” Eames says in a voice filled with very convincing desperateness. “But I just can’t find it. I don’t know what I’m doing wrong.”  
  
“The map is upside down, for starters,” Arthur says. The light is green and people are passing them by. Eames shifts closer to him. He doesn’t have cologne now.  
  
“Oh, goodness,” Eames says, “silly me. I’m so bad with this kind of things. Listen, is there any chance that you could show me the way? Maybe we’re heading to the same direction.”  
  
“I’m actually kind of busy,” Arthur says but quietly, so that anyone who happens to hear doesn’t think he’s unpolite.  
  
Eames’ eyes are telling him that he isn’t. Well, he isn’t and Eames knows that. But he’s angry. And frustrated. And more than a little tired, even though today has been better than yesterday.  
  
“Fine,” he says, takes the map out of Eames’ hands and manages to slap him lightly on the face with it. “Oh, sorry. I’m so sorry. Oh, goodness. I don’t know why I did that.”  
  
Eames is clearly trying to hide his smile, but for a professional, he’s not doing a very good job at it.  
  
“Right,” Arthur says and starts walking to a random direction, looking at the map and not Eames, who’s right next to him. In the next crossroads, Eames grabs his arm and tucks him into the opposite direction where he was planning to go, and he wants to snap at Eames about being so sloppy. If Eames wants to pretend that he’s asking Arthur’s help at finding his hotel, he could at least stick with that story. But of course he can’t say anything, so he follows Eames’ lead as subtly as he can and tries not to look too irritated.  
  
They actually end up in Eames’ hotel.  
  
“Thank you so much,” Eames says, sounding very polite and incredibly British. “If you don’t mind, I would like to offer you a drink at the bar. Just to properly say thank you.”  
  
Arthur lets himself be dragged inside. Eames buys him a drink at the bar and smiles at him as if they’re on a date, and he lets himself wonder if Eames is just bored. Maybe Eames wants to play strangers just to get a kick out of it. So, he drinks the cocktail he likes more than he thought he would and asks why Eames is in the city.  
  
“Oh,” Eames says, “for the weather. And people. These people here, they really let you be on your own, when you want to.”  
  
“And who are you travelling with?” Arthur asks.  
  
“Alone,” Eames says, pulling his shoulders back, “you know, it’s a funny story.”  
  
“I bet it is.”  
  
“My wife and I, we have three kids and a very nice house,” Eames says, “in a nice little village near Birmingham. Everything a man could hope for. But a few years ago, I just realized I was gay.”  
  
“Oh,” Arthur says. He tries not to smile but apparently he’s not doing too well, because Eames kicks him in the ankle under the table.  
  
“Yes,” Eames says, “I had this co-worker, a good friend of mine, too. American. Like yourself, I suppose. A good-looking guy but always wearing suits, which made him seem a little uptight, you know? And his personality? Very uptight as well. So, he really was a good catch. Always concerned, always trying his best not to have fun for a second. But then, one day –“  
  
“I think this is getting a bit personal,” Arthur says. He has a bad feeling that he might be blushing a little. “Maybe you don’t want to tell it to a stranger.”  
  
“One day,” Eames says and kicks him under the table again, only quite gently this time, “I just happened to meet him in the… in the closet. In that kind of a closet where they keep office stuff, you know, the… pencils and paper. There we were, staring at each other in the dim light, and then he, can you believe it, he kissed me.”  
  
“Really?” Arthur asks. “Must have been a temporary lapse of judgement.”  
  
“Not really,” Eames says, “it was very enjoyable. So, we had this short but intense relationship. Sex in a closet and all that, can you imagine it?”  
  
Arthur shakes his head.  
  
“What a shame,” Eames says, “maybe I should elaborate.”  
  
“Please, don’t,” Arthur says.  
  
“You’re smiling,” Eames says, dropping the role for a second. No one else could probably notice that.  
  
“I’m not,” Arthur says. “I’m just thinking, this uptight co-worker of yours, always concerned and always frowning, He doesn’t sound like he’s your type at all.”  
  
“I didn’t tell you he’s always frowning,” Eames says, “but now that you mentioned it, he really is. I’m worried about his little forehead. But anyway, you’re right. You could suppose he wouldn’t be my type. But, you know, I always thought he was kind of hot.”  
  
Arthur clears his throat. “Don’t lie.”  
  
“I’m not lying,” Eames says, his ankle settling to rest against Arthur’s under the table. “I’ve always loved teasing him. He’s such a snob. But with a heart, you know. And he likes posh clothes and can’t bother to hide it. He probably thinks it’s _cool,_ bloody hell. There’s something magical about people like that, don’t you think?”  
  
“And then what happened?” Arthur asks, his voice coming out hoarse. He takes a sip of his drink. Eames looks terribly delighted. “After the two of you had sex in a closet, I mean?”  
  
“Oh,” Eames says, “my wife found out and left me. A terrible thing. I miss the kids. But one of the perks is that I get to travel.”  
  
“That’s how you ended up in Helsinki.”  
  
“Yes,” Eames says, “it was June and I thought, what better place to go than warm, sunny Helsinki.”  
  
“Yeah,” Arthur says, “I know.” The rain is starting to clatter against the windows and people walking in the streets seem to have quilted jackets. “Just let me ask you one question.”  
  
“Anything,” Eames says, looking hopeful. Oh, God.  
  
“Are you trying to hit on me?”  
  
Arthur doesn’t stare ta Eames’ neck as he swallows. For a second Eames looks surprised. “Oh, why, I think I actually am, now that you mentioned it. You look like a nice lad, lad. So concerned and frowning.”  
  
“Just the kind you like,” Arthur says quietly enough that he’s not even sure Eames is supposed to hear it.  
  
“Yeah,” Eames says, “don’t get proud. But we should probably go to my room.”  
  
“Fine,” Arthur says.  
  
It’s strange, standing in the elevator next to Eames, almost as if Eames really was hitting on him. Almost as if he was going to Eames’ room to have sex with Eames, but when he thinks about that, he starts coughing and can’t stop. There’s a lady in the elevator with them, probably Finnish because she’s wearing a windbreaker and wellies, and once he thinks he sees the lady wink at Eames, who has in some point of it placed a hand on the low of Arthur’s back. Then the elevator stops, and they get out and walk to Eames’ room, which is much bigger and posher than Arthur’s and has a kitchen included.  
  
Eames closes the door. Arthur stands in the middle of the room, not sure what the hell he’s supposed to do.  
  
“Just sit down,” Eames says. “I have whiskey.”  
  
Arthur sits down. The couch is nice. Eames goes to the kitchen, opens the cupboard door, pulls out a half-empty bottle of whiskey and pours it into two glasses. His back looks nice. Also, the collar of his shirt looks like he put the shirt on in a dark room and didn’t bother to look in the mirror afterwards.  
  
“So,” Eames says, passing Arthur the glass and sitting next to him, “I hope you aren’t feeling bad about the ex-wife and four kids.”  
  
“Drop it,” Arthur says. “I thought there were three.”  
  
“Oh, you know how easy it is to forget how many kids you have,” Eames says and drowns his whiskey in two gulps. “Well, that was fun. You were so angry at me when I asked you to show me the way.”  
  
“It’s not exactly safe, talking to each other in public while we’re on a job.”  
  
“This is not that kind of a job,” Eames says, “the kind where you get shot in the end.”  
  
“You don’t know that.”  
  
“And the look on your face when you slapped me with that map. You were so bloody smug about it.”  
  
Arthur takes a sip of his whiskey.  
  
“I just thought,” Eames says, “that we could stay at my place for tonight. You’ve got to admit that this is nicer than yours. And I couldn’t just invite you over when Sebastian and Helena were there, could I?”  
  
“You could’ve texted me.”  
  
“Boring. And well, maybe I thought you might’ve been feeling a bit bad about yesterday, being the idiot that you are. Because I got into your head and there was a projection of me looking like he wanted to blow you. So, I figured it might cheer you up a little if you knew you weren’t the only one.”  
  
“That I’m not the only one?”  
  
“I mean,” Eames says, shifting in the couch, “I wanted you to know that I don’t exactly loathe your type. The suits and the frowning and all that. It’s surprisingly nice, once you get used to it.”  
  
“Thank you,” Arthur says.  
  
“I mean,” Eames says slowly, “you think I’m hot and I think you’re hot. That’s what I mean.”  
  
Arthur empties his glass.  
  
“So,” Eames says, “I have an idea.”  
  
  
**  
  
  
There’s no way Arthur’s going to go with it. Absolutely no way. It’s crazy that he’s still in Eames’ hotel room, he should’ve fucked off when Eames started talking about why they should do it, but at that point he was already slightly drunk and going back to his hotel seemed too much work. So, he’s still sitting here, in the couch next to Eames who’s now apparently talking about a book he read a month ago, but there’s something tense in his voice and Arthur doesn’t like it. Eames should be at least able to pretend nothing’s off. If Eames can’t pretend, there’s no way Arthur can.  
  
Arthur's not going to go with it, of course not. But the thing is, he really, really,  _really_ wants to.  
  
“It’s just sex,” Eames says. It seems that he’s not talking about the book anymore. The light coming through the curtains is not dark at all but then again, it never really gets dark here in the summer. Strange. “Arthur, it’s just sex.”  
  
“We aren’t going to do it.”  
  
“It wouldn’t be even real,” Eames says, then moves his arm on the back of the couch and touches the back of Arthur’s neck. Arthur tries not to jump. He saw it coming. He’s not fucking afraid to touch people, alright? It’s just been a long time. “Not real at all. But better than with a projection. Because I’d be there.”  
  
Arthur closes his eyes.  
  
“It’s not about your problems with sleeping,” Eames says, running his fingers up so they mess with Arthur’s hair, “or, it’s not just about that. I wouldn’t be doing it for you. I’m fucking tired at sex with projections, Arthur. And I’m tired of playing a role in bed.”  
  
“Then find someone,” Arthur says, only it comes out sounding very grudging.  
  
“You have the guts to tell me to fuck off,” Eames says, “and you like me anyway and can’t help it, you poor thing. It’s a marvel.”  
  
“Shut up, Eames.”  
  
“I don’t think so,” Eames says, “I think you like it when I tease you. Tell me you don’t.”  
  
Arthur takes a deep breath. His hair is probably ruined. Eames is petting his fucking _ears_ and he shivers without wanting to.  
  
“It’s alright,” Eames says, “I know. You hate it when someone you know sees you showing any weakness, you idiot, what do you think they’ll do, eat you? But I know. I know how you are.”  
  
“Eames,” Arthur says and swallows, “this isn’t… you aren’t…”  
  
“I’m not proposing to you,” Eames says. “It’s just sex. In a dream. With a few feelings.”  
  
Oh, God.  
  
“I’ve done it plenty of times,” Eames says, “fucked in a dream.”  
  
Arthur laughs, only he sounds nervous. “And that’s supposed to make it better?”  
  
“Well, it does, doesn’t it?” Eames asks. He sounds almost like he always does, irritating and smug and ready to do everything in his power to annoy Arthur as much as he can.  
  
This is such a crappy idea.  
  
But it’s not like he doesn’t feel a bit strange about fucking Eames’ projection in those dreams. Not that it’s a habit, because it’s not. Before the Fischer job, it had happened only once or twice, and always as an accident. He had been having the normal kind of dream sex with a good-looking and completely unrecognizable man who was wearing a well-tailored suit, until he took it off, of course, and who was saying in a husky voice all those things Arthur had picked up from porn. And then, out of the blue, there had been Eames, Eames who was bantering and swearing and completely unprofessional and let Arthur turn him on his stomach on the bed but never shut up.  
  
After the Fischer job, things changed. He barely has sex in a dream these days, because when he does, it’s always with Eames. As if he’s fucking in love with Eames or something like that, which he can’t be, because there’s no way he could deal with a mess like that. So, he usually just wanks in a shower thinking about a man with broad shoulders and British accent and wonderfully witty insults and comes as quickly as he can.  
  
It would be kind of better, wouldn’t it, if it was Eames and not a projection. More honest. But still in a dream, and dreams don’t count.  
  
“Arthur,” Eames says, his fingers following up and down on Arthur’s neck, “you don’t like women, do you? Not at all. You’d never even consider fucking a woman.”  
  
“That’s none of your business,” Arthur says.  
  
“I’m just curious,” Eames says. “What kind of sex do you like? Sweet? Rough? Role-play? Because to be honest, I’m not so much into role-play. I do it for a living, you see. It would be a luxury to, you know, just fuck. But if you insist –“  
  
“We aren’t going to do this.”  
  
“Fine,” Eames says. “Maybe you have a thing for guns. The look on your face when we were under in the Fischer job and I dreamed that machine gun -”  
  
“Shut up,” Arthur says, placing his empty glass to the coffee table, only then he has two free hands and nothing to do with them. He places one on Eames’ thigh.  
  
“Tying? Blood? Three-some?”  
  
“Blood?” Arthur says and turns to face Eames, only Eames is far too close to him. “What the fuck would you do with blood?”  
  
“I’d figure out something,” Eames says, running his palm down Arthur’s arm. “I bet you’re stronger than you look.”  
  
“You know how strong I am.”  
  
Eames grins.  
  
“I wasn’t flirting.”  
  
“How would you know?” Eames says. “Listen. We’ll go to your crazy glass house at the sea, only you need to dream us a proper bed. We’ll fuck and then we’ll just lie in the bed and possibly take a nap and when we wake up, it’s almost like you would’ve slept the whole night for real, and you don’t need to think that you fucked me because it never happened.”  
  
“Eames –“  
  
“Arthur,” Eames says and leans closer, “Arthur, your hand is on my thigh.”  
  
Arthur should pull his hand away, but it seems kind of pointless now.  He runs his fingertips on Eames' knee and thinks he feels Eames flinch.  
  
“Tell me you don’t want to fuck me," Eames says. He sounds a little out of breath.  
  
"If we do this," Arthur begins but doesn't have a fucking clue how to end it.  _If we do this, it's going to mean nothing_ , perhaps. Or,  _if we do this, it's going to have to mean something._ "Eames, this is crazy."  
  
"Yeah, I know," Eames says and places his hand on Arthur's palm, stopping Arthur's hand so that it rests on Eames' knee, heavy and still. "Do you want to anyway?"  
  
"Yes," Arthur says.  
  
  
**  
  
  
The sea isn’t moving. There’s soft rain falling against the glass walls and the sky is grey.  
  
“This is the weather you chose?” Eames asks. He sounds like he’s trying to appear feeling hurt to cover up that he actually is. “You dreamed _rain_ for the occasion?”  
  
“Apparently so,” Arthur says and dreams a bottle of wine. He’s going to need it.  
  
“Kinky.”  
  
“Maybe I did it for you,” Arthur says, “to make you feel like home.”  
  
Eames laughs. “Oh. Bloody bastard. Well, it doesn’t work, because it’s been a long time since I’ve actually lived in England.”  
  
“So, where’re you living these days?”  
  
“Are you trying to flirt?”  
  
“God, no,” Arthur says. He shouldn’t. He’s more nervous than he is supposed to be and also it’s kind of getting under his skin, the knowledge that this is nothing but a dream. It’s not going to happen, not really. And Eames said that he’s fucked plenty of people in a dream. It’s not like Arthur’s _special._ “A little.”  
  
“I spent a few weeks in Iceland,” Eames says, “went for a hike. It was nice.”  
  
“I can’t imagine that.”  
  
“I know, darling,” Eames says and sits down on the bed. “Aren’t you going to offer me some of that wine?”  
  
Arthur dreams another bottle for him.  
  
“Thank you,” Eames says. “Now, I think we should just do it. You’re so clumsy at flirting that it’s not going to help, and I’m kind of ready, because you kept your fucking hand on my thigh for so long. As if you didn’t know what you were doing, you fucker.”  
  
“Maybe you shouldn’t insult me all the time.”  
  
“Maybe. It’s going to get you too excited too soon. Only we don’t really have to worry about that here, because we can go again and again.”  
  
Arthur rolls his eyes.  
  
Eames laughs and then stops. “Arthur. I’m not good at flirting either. Not without a role. It’s quite possible that I’m even worse than you, can you believe it? So could you please just fucking come over here and sit down and take off your clothes?”  
  
Arthur swallows.  
  
“I can take them off,” Eames says after a blink of silence, “I suppose I can undress you if you want to undress me.”  
  
“I think,” Arthur says, drinks a bit more wine and imagines it blurring his head so that he’s not this fucking nervous or excited or worried that Eames will notice he's wanted to do this for so long. It helps a little. “I think that would be fine.”  
  
“Come on,” Eames says when he comes closer, “come on, we’re in a dream. You can ask me whatever you want. Just ask me. You don’t have to be so shy about it.”  
  
“I’m not shy,” he says, sits down next to Eames and starts unbuttoning Eames’ shirt. His fingers tremble a little. Maybe Eames doesn’t notice.  
  
“I might be,” Eames says and pulls the hem of Arthur’s shirt free. Arthur breathes in and out. Eames’ hands should be cold but they aren’t, and Arthur’s shirt should get wrinkled but it doesn’t, and the bed should creek but it stays silent. “Don’t worry. What’re you worrying about?”  
  
“This is strange. This feels like a –“  
  
“A dream,” Eames says and unzippers Arthur’s pants. “It’s a dream, darling. You’re with me in a dream.”  
  
Arthur pushes Eames’ shirt to the floor and bites back the smile. He knew that Eames’ tattoos were ridiculous. And then he forgets about the tattoos because Eames’ hand is in his underpants, gentle and careful and almost hesitant even if there’s no reason for it because this isn’t happening. Arthur’s harder than he should be at this point and quite possibly bigger than he really is, which is not very flattering for his self-esteem, but what the hell. This is his dream. He closes his eyes and wonders if he ought to make this last forever or come quickly and then go again, and that’s when Eames kisses him.  
  
“Fuck,” he says. It feels real.  
  
“Shut up,” Eames says. “I like kissing.”  
  
So Arthur kisses him back.  
  
It’s strange, almost like only half of him is there, almost like these things aren’t happening to him. The rain is getting harder. They undress or perhaps Arthur imagines them undressed, he’s not sure, and then he rolls Eames onto his stomach and everything is simple and elastic as things are when they aren’t real, he can rewind and slow down, and he can make Eames take him without lube and without a condom and with one push and it’s _crazy_ and blurry and feels so incredibly good and as if it’s not happening. But Eames feels real.  
  
  
**  
  
  
Arthur has a mild headache and he's tired as hell, but perhaps not just as tired as in many other mornings.  
  
“Hi.”  
  
He blinks. Eames is lying next to him on the bed. There’s light in the room but there is light through the whole night in bloody Finland in June, apparently. His neck cracks when he tries to see the clock. It’s not even six yet.  
  
“Hi,” he says to Eames and wonders if he is supposed to get out of the bed and get a cab to his own hotel like a proper one-night-stand.  
  
“I have to piss,” Eames says and climbs out of the bed. He’s wearing his shirt and underpants, which is weird because the moment ago he was naked, lying in the bed, the morning light drawing shadows on his skin, in Arthur’s glass house, in a dream. Arthur watches him go to the bathroom and then listens to his own heart beating and Eames taking a piss and counts the seconds. He should leave.  
  
When Eames comes back, he doesn’t look disappointed to find Arthur there. He looks like he’s in pain, though.  
  
“Are you sore?”  
  
Eames blinks at him and then grins. “You bastard. No, I’m not fucking sore from you having your wicked ways with me. This is how I wake up every morning. Every old injury that I’ve forgotten about aches. You’ll understand when you’re over thirty.”  
  
“You’re an old man, then.”  
  
“I can still kick your ass. Want to try?”  
  
“Not really,” Arthur says. He might have a chance at beating Eames, though. If Eames underestimated him. If he could get Eames on his back on the bed, his knee pressing against Eames’ chest -  
  
“Are you hungry?” Eames says and then frowns. “Tired? Maybe you’d like to try to sleep a little more.”  
  
“I don’t think I can.”  
  
Eames nods at the bathroom. “Go take a wank and try then.”  
  
Arthur breathes in and out.  
  
“I promise I won’t listen.”  
  
“Shut up.”  
  
“Well, I won’t watch,” Eames says and grins at him, the annoying obnoxious grin that should drive him crazy, “unless you want me to.”  
  
“Go to hell.”  
  
“Oh, darling, you don’t seem sleepy,” Eames says and goes to the kitchen. “I’ll make you breakfast.”  
  
“Eames.”  
  
“Shut up, Arthur.”  
  
_Shut up, Arthur_ , Arthur thinks, goes to bathroom and after that, back to the bed. He’s still wearing his shirt, but it would look weird to take it off now. Eames is in the kitchen, seemingly frying eggs. His boxers might be a bit too small but the color is kind of nice.  
  
_Shut up, Arthur._  
  
It’s not like he _actually_ had sex with Eames.  
  
And if he’s staring at Eames’ ass, it’s only because it’s _right there._  
  
“I like yours, too,” Eames says, glancing at him over his shoulders.  
  
He blinks. “What?”  
  
“Darling,” Eames says, raising an eyebrow, and turns back to the stove.  
  
_Darling._  
  
  
**  
  
  
“You look good today, Arthur,” Eames says, when Arthur’s working with the details for the timeframe of the extraction.  
  
“Well, thank you, Mr. Eames,” Arthur says and throws a quick glance at Sebastian’s back, but the man doesn’t seem to have noticed anything odd.  
  
“Did something special happen last night?” Eames asks.  
  
_Fuck you_ , Arthur mouths and then turns back to his laptop. Maybe he's smiling a little but no one's going to notice that.  
  
  
**  
  
  
“You must be pretty close,” Sebastian says. They’re eating late dinner. The floor is covered with empty take-away bags and the sun is still shining behind the windows even though it’s late evening already. “You and Eames, I mean. You’ve worked together for a long time.”  
  
“What?” Arthur says and glances at Eames, who’s looking like he doesn’t know what Sebastian is talking about. “No. Well, yeah. Once in a while. It’s not like we’ve been together. Professionally.”  
  
“Like you and Dom Cobb,” Sebastian says.  
  
Arthur bites his lip. He’s _happy_ that Cobb is happy these days. “Well, yeah.”  
  
“But you’ve never, like,” Sebastian says and his glance flickers from Arthur to Eames and back, “dated.”  
  
“No,” Arthur says, too quickly, but Sebastian doesn’t notice.  
  
“Great. I just thought that you might, because you both are, well, you are gay, aren’t you?”  
  
“Yeah,” Arthur says, even though it’s not Sebastian’s bloody business at all.  
  
“I can be whatever you want,” Eames says and winks at them.  
  
The smile on Sebastian’s face makes Arthur’s stomach squirm, or perhaps it’s the hamburger he ate. He excuses himself and goes to the bathroom, locks the door and leans against it. Fucking hell. Eames isn’t going to fuck Sebastian, that would be unprofessional even for him, and Sebastian can’t be Eames’ type, and also, Eames has slept in the same room with Arthur for three nights, when the hell would he have the time to have sex with Sebastian? And then Arthur thinks that perhaps Sebastian is making a move at Eames right now, and Eames is playing the damn role he already started, _I can be whatever you want_ , and perhaps they’re fucking at Arthur’s desk. Perhaps -  
  
“Arthur?”  
  
Oh, shit. He closes his eyes for a second. “Go away.”  
  
“I can see your feet under the door,” Eames says. “I bet you aren’t doing anything you’re supposed to do in a toilet.”  
  
“None of your goddamn business.”  
  
“Darling,” Eames says, and it’s _unfair_ that he gets to say that _all the time_ , but his voice is quiet and almost gentle and he’s not playing a role now. “I didn’t think you were the jealous type.”  
  
“I’m not –“  
  
“I saw your face when I flirted with Sebastian,” Eames says. There’s a short silence. “And I’m sorry about that.”  
  
“You’re allowed to –“  
  
“I thought you thought it was unprofessional.”  
  
“Well, it is, but –“  
  
“Arthur, let me in.”  
  
“I definitely won’t.”  
  
“If you let me in,” Eames says, “Sebastian will probably think that we’re fucking and then he’s going to back off and stop trying to get into my pants and you’ll get to have them all for yourself.”  
  
“Your pants are awful.”  
  
“I could just break this door,” Eames says. He sounds like he’s smiling. “Wouldn’t that be romantic?”  
  
Arthur doesn’t want to laugh but he laughs anyway, and then he lets Eames in. Eames locks the door. The stall is ridiculously small for two people, and Eames smells better than ever.  
  
“For now on,” Eames says, leaning his elbow against the wall right next to Arthur’s left ear, because apparently there’s no room for it anywhere else, “for now on I’m going to flirt with you all the time. Wittily and subtly. Just the way you like it. And I’m going to keep it on until I get you to blush in a very unprofessional way. And Sebastian will probably cry a little at his hotel room tonight but maybe then he’ll get himself a proper date.”  
  
“Eames,” Arthur says, “you’re stupid.”  
  
“Well, thank you, Mr. Arthur.”  
  
“Fuck you.”  
  
For a second he thinks Eames is going to kiss him. He’s more awake than he’s been in five months. He should tell Eames not to but he’s not fucking going to, and he’s inches away from Eames’ chest, his knees are inches away from Eames’ knees, and what if he likes Eames, what then? It’s not like he can just turn it off.  
  
“Tonight,” Eames says and places his hand on Arthur’s arm, “I think we should be at my place.”  
  
“Fine.”  
  
“Sure?”  
  
“I’ll come.”  
  
“Good,” Eames says, looking like he’s trying not to smile. “Great.”  
  
“We should probably go,” Arthur says.  
  
“Yes, we should,” Eames says and runs his palm on Arthur’s arm. “You’ve been exercising.”  
  
“Mr. Eames.”  
  
Eames grins and opens the door.  
  
  
**  
  
  
Arthur walks around the block a few times and then realizes that he’s breaking all his own rules about avoiding unwanted attention while in the job. He pushes his hands deep into his pockets and walks into the hotel. In the loft, the lady from the elevator yesterday is sitting in a chair, reading a newspaper with wellies and a raincoat. Arthur walks past her and to the elevator. In Eames’ floor he realizes he’s been holding his breath for some time.  
  
He shouldn’t be here. This is crazy. He likes Eames too much. There’s no way this is going to end with the two of them being in a relationship, and he doesn’t want that, he _doesn’t_ , and what’s more important, Eames definitely doesn’t. Arthur has done thorough research on Eames, obviously, it’s his fucking job. There’s nothing in those files that suggests Eames might be interested in a relationship. And even if Eames were interested, which is so improbable that Arthur shouldn’t be thinking about it all, certainly everything would go wrong in one way or another. They’ve pissed off quite a few people, him and Eames, together and separately. It kind of comes with a job. But to have someone to care about is to have a weak spot. And besides that, when would they meet? And where? Would Eames come to Arthur’s place in New York or in San Francisco, or to his little flat in Berlin? What would they even do? Go to a dinner in a nice restaurant like actual couples? Talk about whatever is going on with their lives and then come back to Arthur’s place in Friedrichsstrasse and have sex? Maybe they could watch television afterwards. Arthur’s been meaning to try Mad Men for some time but watching television seems like a thing that’s better to do with someone.  
  
He knocks on the door.  
  
“Just come in,” Eames says, staying inside the room, not coming to hug or kiss him. Of course not. But if they were actually together -  
  
_Fuck._ Arthur really needs to stop thinking about that.  
  
He walks into the room and closes the door. Eames goes back to the kitchen. His shirt is unbuttoned half-way down and it should look stupid, but it doesn’t. Also, he’s doing something with the pan again.  
  
“What’re you –“  
  
“Crêpes,” Eames says. “I was hungry.”  
  
“I didn’t know you can cook.”  
  
Eames throws a glance at him.  
  
“Well, I kind of knew,” Arthur says. “I suppose I was trying to say… it’s nice.”  
  
“Shit,” Eames says, smiling, “you’ve got to be careful or you’re going to lose that frown.”  
  
Maybe Arthur smiles at that, but it doesn’t matter, because Eames turns to the stove and can’t see him. “I’m sure you’d miss that.”  
  
“Well, the frown is your most distinct feature,” Eames says. “Of course I’d miss it.”  
  
It makes it somehow easier, the bantering. It’s familiar. “I could try to frown a little more, if you want. Just for you.”  
  
“Oh, God,” Eames says, laughing. “That’s not necessary. Really. Thank you but I’m just fine.”  
  
“Just wanted to offer.”  
  
“How nice of you. We’re going to have chocolate with these, can you melt it down?”  
  
“Ah,” Arthur says. “I probably can’t.”  
  
He thinks he can see the silent laugher in Eames’ shoulders. “You don’t know how to melt chocolate?”  
  
“I could Google it.”  
  
“Don’t bother,” Eames says, “we wouldn’t want you to learn something actually useful. I have canned whipped cream. You know how to use that?”  
  
“Fucking hell, Eames.”  
  
“It’s nothing,” Eames says, glancing at him. “I’m just trying to help you gain a little weight.”  
  
“It’s not _nothing_ , Eames.”  
  
“Shut up,” Eames says.  
  
An hour later, Arthur is stuffed with crêpes, chocolate and ice cream, sitting in Eames’ armchair, his head resting against the back of the chair. If he didn’t know he can’t sleep, he would think he’d be falling asleep pretty soon. He’s just taken off his tie and unbuttoned his collar when Eames brings a bottle of whiskey.  
  
“Eames.”  
  
“What?” Eames asks and places the bottle on the coffee table in between them. “For courage.”  
  
“Actually,” Arthur says, even though there’s a warning signal going off in his brain, _do not tell anything personal about yourself that you can avoid telling_ , “I’m not very good with alcohol. I _drink._ Sometimes. But it kind of… I don’t handle it too well.”  
  
“Must be because you’re so tiny,” Eames says. There’s something warm in his voice.  
  
“I just thought, maybe it’d be better if I wasn’t,” Arthur says, “you know, drunk.”  
  
“For what?”  
  
Arthur shakes his head. Eames sits back in his chair.  
  
“So, that jealousy thing.”  
  
“It wasn’t… Sorry about that.”  
  
“I wasn’t offended,” Eames says, looking at him too closely. “Just slightly surprised. Then again, I should’ve guessed. You’re so serious about everything.”  
  
Arthur opens his mouth and then closes it again.  
  
“So, I’m just going to ask,” Eames says, takes the bottle of whiskey and keeps it absent-mindedly in his hands without opening it, “and don’t take this the wrong way, but what would I need to do so that you’d sleep with me? Awake, I mean.”  
  
Arthur clears his throat. Okay. He has a background in military. He has had training to cope with difficult situations. In any second now, it’s going to kick in. Hopefully.  
  
“Wrong way,” he says, “what would be the wrong way to take that?”  
  
Eames opens the bottle and closes it again. “The wrong way, I suppose, would be for you to think that I’m just trying to get laid.”  
  
“Because if you were trying to just get laid, surely the easiest possible candidate for that would be me,” Arthur says, “since I’m so easygoing and relaxed.”  
  
Eames half-smiles at him.  
  
“So, that’s not why you’re asking,” he says.  
  
“Are you going to answer?”  
  
God, no.  
  
What the fuck would he say, anyway? That he’d need Eames to say that he actually _likes_ Arthur, almost like they’re in love or something? Bloody _hell._ He can’t say anything like that to Eames. He can’t ask for anything like that.  
  
“You know,” he says, “I’ve been wondering how the hell Cobb and Mal managed with their relationship.”  
  
“Well, poorly,” Eames says, “obviously. In the end.”  
  
Arthur clears his throat.  
  
“Sorry.”  
  
“I mean,” Arthur says, “in our line of work, it seems pretty difficult to… get into a relationship, let alone maintain one.”  
  
“Are you looking for a relationship?”  
  
Arthur shakes his head and then takes a deep breath. “How the fuck would I know? I don’t know how they work.”  
  
“Haven’t you Googled it?” Eames says, but his voice is quiet.  
  
“Have you?” Arthur asks. His voice comes out sharp, full of edges he can’t soften even if he tries.  
  
“I had a few,” Eames says slowly, “well, two of what you would call long relationships. But I was very young.”  
  
“So,” Arthur says and frowns, “so, you’ve tried it and decided it’s not for you.”  
  
“Well, I was twenty-four when my engagement broke off,” Eames says, watching him closely, “I was a different person then. I was studying in the university and thought I’d buy a house and have kids. I don’t know anymore, if it’s for me or not. I’d have to try. And…”  
  
Arthur leans back in the armchair.  
  
“I think it kind of depends on the person.”  
  
“Right.”  
  
“Arthur,” Eames says, “you like me.”  
  
“Yeah. Kind of.”  
  
Eames smiles a bit.  
  
“A lot.”  
  
“Good,” Eames says, watching him, “great. Because for a tiny, uptight man you’re very delighting.”  
  
“Well,” Arthur says. “Thank you.”  
  
“And I really like it that you keep frowning all the time,” Eames says, “it makes me think that I don’t have to worry because you’re already worrying for the both of us.”  
  
Arthur bites his lip.  
  
“And obviously I wouldn’t mind sleeping with you.”  
  
“Fine,” Arthur says.  
  
“Fine,” Eames says and reaches for the bottle of whiskey again. “Arthur, I’ve got to drink a little. I can’t do it sober. I haven’t had any real feelings for anyone in almost ten years. I’ll be nervous as hell and won’t be able to perform. And I really want to.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“When we have sex.” Eames blinks. “We’re going to have sex, aren’t we? Or do you want to go on a date?”  
  
“I think,” Arthur says, “I think, maybe you’d like to undress for me.”  
  
Eames stares at him for a second and then begins laughing, but it’s the best kind of laughter. He stops laughing pretty soon, though. At that point, he’s already pushed his shirt aside and is unzipping his trousers, and Arthur is sitting still and reminding himself not to fuck this up, because Eames is fucking _stripping_ for him, _for him_ , and he looks so serious and so ridiculous and so _good,_ when he finally takes off his socks and then his underpants and just sits there, naked in the chair, both feet on the floor and knees a bit too apart.  
  
“Alright?” Eames asks.  
  
Arthur coughs. “Yeah. Yes. Fine.”  
  
“Great,” Eames says.  
  
“Great,” Arthur says and copies Eames’ posture, only he’s still wearing everything. Eames grins at him and looks up and down on his body, as if he’s the one who’s naked. “Well, what do you like?”  
  
“I never understood your fascination with black suits,” Eames says, “but I’ve got to admit that they fit your personality.”  
  
Arthur tries not to smile.  
  
“God, Arthur,” Eames says, his voice lower now, “how does this work? Do I get to wish?”  
  
“I think so,” Arthur says. His heart is pounding heavily against his ribs, "yeah."  
  
“I would like you to come here and fucking take care of me,” Eames says, “in your stupid suit and with your serious face. Would you do that?”  
  
Arthur nods and starts tucking up his sleeves, but then he has to look somewhere else because Eames is grinning too widely at him. The bastard. He gets up, walks to Eames and sits down in his lap.  
  
“Shit,” Eames says, his hands climbing up on Arthur’s back, clinging into the fabric, “ _shit._ Arthur. Maybe we could, you know, maybe we could kiss first?”  
  
_That’s not possible,_ Arthur thinks about saying, _I deeply regret to inform you that kissing is not an option,_ and then he’d take Eames in his hand, and Eames’ eyelids would flatter, dear God, and he’d stare at Arthur with his mouth open and his breathing growing busier and Arthur would take care of him like he takes care of everything, with precision and utter seriousness.  
  
“Darling,” Eames says, a bit out of breath.  
  
Arthur leans down to kiss him.  
  
It’s different than in the dream. Messier and clumsier but better.  
  
Then he puts his hand on Eames’ cock.  
  
“Oh, fucking –“  
  
“Shut up,” he says and kisses Eames again.  
  
“You prick,” Eames says against his mouth, smiling and breathing hard, “you utter shit, you’ve had a thing for me for ages, but I never could tell for sure because you’re so serious, and I thought that maybe you flirted back by accident, you idiot, or that maybe you didn’t even know you were gay –“  
  
“Stop talking.”  
  
“I want your phone number,” Eames says, “like, your real phone number, the number of the phone you’re actually going to answer to, and I want to know where you live, all the places where you live, and what they look like, I bet your decoration is like from a magazine but duller –“  
  
Arthur pulls his hand away.  
  
“Don’t stop,” Eames says, looking rather happy that he stopped, “please, don’t stop, just don’t stop.”  
  
“Really? What’re you going to do for me?”  
  
“Anything,” Eames says.  
  
“Anything?”  
  
“Except wear a suit.”  
  
“You fucking –“ But Arthur can’t finish it, because Eames leans forward and kisses him on the mouth, quite sloppily but what the hell.  
  
“You could fuck me,” Eames says, pulling the hem of Arthur’s shirt free and pushing his hands under the fabric, his hands that are far too cold for that. Arthur wraps his fingers around his cock and tucks a few times. “Would you like to?” Eames says. “Arthur, would you like to? Because you could.”  
  
“I don’t have condoms.”  
  
“I have. And lube. And I showered.”  
  
“So, you had high hopes for the night.”  
  
“Well,” Eames says and kisses him, “I had a funny dream last night. About a few things we did. Together.”  
  
“Is that so.”  
  
“Arthur,” Eames says, running his hand under Arthur’s shirt higher until his fingers reach the back of Arthur’s neck, “I would kindly ask that you either finish me or fuck me. Would you?”  
  
“Clothes on or off?”  
  
Eames takes a deep breath. “Off. For this time. I just want to… I bet you look bloody nice.”  
  
“Alright,” Arthur says and stands up, and _shit_ , Eames is just staring at him, staring and clenching his fists on his thighs apparently not to touch himself, because he’s leaking, and so hard it looks a bit uncomfortable, and it’s been some time since Arthur has done this, and he doesn’t have the muscles Eames does, which he only remembers when he’s already pulling his shirt off.  
  
“Goddamn,” Eames says in a rushed voice, “I never understood how you can have all that strength packed up so compactly.”  
  
“Don’t fucking tell me I’m compact.”  
  
“Alright, alright,” Eames says, “just hurry up, please.”  
  
Half a minute later, it becomes apparent that Arthur has forgotten how to put on a condom, or maybe his fingers just aren’t working right at the moment. Eames helps him. And then there’s nothing else left to do than to get to the bed, and there seems to be too many knees and too many elbows, and Eames’ kisses are getting more impatient, and Arthur starts worrying about whether he can keep it hard or not, and what if he comes right away, and what if he can’t fucking _fit,_ and Eames laughs at his face and kisses him with a bit more patience and then kisses his cock thoroughly enough that he forgets about worrying for a minute.  
  
It’s messy.  
  
But Eames’ skin is warmer than Arthur remembers from the dream.  
  
It feels more real.  
  
It’s difficult to concentrate on anything else than the way Eames closes his eyes and falls silent except for his breathing. When Arthur kisses him, all that he says is _darling._  
  
Arthur slides in and out and grabs Eames’ wrists, holding them down onto the sheets.  
  
When he comes, it takes him a moment to remember Eames hasn’t yet.  
  
“Arthur,” Eames says, when he takes Eames’ cock in his hand and finishes him.  
  
  
**  
  
  
It’s fucking _cold_ in here.  
  
“Arthur.”  
  
Arthur blinks. Eames is in the bed next to him, naked, his fingers running down on Arthur’s side.  
  
“Fucking hell, Arthur,” Eames says. “Just… fucking hell. Are you hungry?”  
  
“Not really,” Arthur says. “What’s the time?”  
  
“Not three yet,” Eames says. “You slept for a few hours.”  
  
Arthur closes his eyes for a second.  
  
“Get back to sleep.”  
  
“Eames.”  
  
Eames’ fingers stop on Arthur’s arm. “What?”  
  
“Are you sure I’m awake? That we are?”  
  
Eames nods and then smiles. His fingers go soothingly through Arthur’s hair. “Yes. We’re awake. I didn’t want to bring this up, but your cock was considerably smaller this night than yesterday.”  
  
“Thank God,” Arthur says. He’s awake. He’s not in a dream and Eames is looking at him as if he’s something precious.  
  
“Yeah, well,” Eames says, “it’s just perfect the way it is. You are, pretty much. But if you tell anyone I said so, there’ll be consequences.”  
  
“Really? What?”  
  
“I’ll think about it then,” Eames says. “I have a great imagination. Now, are you sure you couldn’t fall asleep again?”  
  
It turns out that Arthur can’t. He keeps watching the ceiling as Eames kisses his shoulder for a few times before turning to his side and beginning to snore. But he doesn’t mind too much. Behind the curtains, the night goes on until about four o’clock the sun is climbing up in the horizon. Arthur watches it coloring the buildings yellow and orange.  
  
“Arthur?” Eames mutters. “Come back to the bed.”  
  
  
**  
  
  
Four days later, the job is done. No one gets shot at, not even in a dream, which is strange but good. After everything’s finished, they split like they’re supposed to, quickly and without goodbyes. That evening, Arthur’s at the door to his flat in Berlin, trying to find his keys and trying to push back the feeling that he’s lost something else.  
  
Well, he finds the keys.  
  
There’s a strange smell in the flat. Almost like fresh coffee.  
  
“I thought you’d be here half an hour ago,” Eames says, sitting in Arthur’s nicest chair without pants, apparently trying to drink coffee and eat chocolate cookies at the same time. “I took a job in Cairo, I have to leave tomorrow afternoon, but first, have you seen Star Wars? I hear they’re good. We could try one. And don’t you have spices? I couldn’t find anything, not even salt. What do you even _eat?_ ”  
  
Arthur places his gun on the dresser and his coat on the rack and walks to the living room.

**Author's Note:**

> It's been a while since I've been writing about these two and boy am I glad to be back into shipping them! You can say hi to me on [tumblr](http://toyhto.tumblr.com) if you feel like it.
> 
> Also, this story is unbetaed, sorry about that, I wish my English as a second language -thing isn't showing too much. I'm currently writing more Arthur/Eames, and if you feel like maybe betaing something for me, feel free to send me a message on tumblr, I'd appreciate the help with the prepositions! God, you guys have so many.
> 
> The title of the story is obviously borrowed from Sleepless in Seattle the movie. And if there's someone who's Finnish reading this, sorry about teasing you about the wellies and the raincoats. They're so practical. As a fellow Finn, I know.


End file.
